XVIII
STILL grave, my budding Arahat?
I see the crux of my disgrace
Lies in the mad idea that—that !—
Is not dissimilar, usurps
The very function I have given
Blissful beyond the bliss of heaven—
Aha! there is a bird that chirps
Another song. Here’s paint and brush
And canvas. I will paint anon
The limb yon garter once was on ;
Sketch you a nude—my soul—and nude
The very human attitude
We all assume—or else are posers.
Such winners are the surest losers.
I paint her picture, recognise—
Dare you ?—one glimmer of her eyes
Like yours, one shimmer of her skin
Like that your flesh is hidden in,
One laugh upon her lips enough
Like yours for me to recollect,
Remind, recall, hint? Never! Stuff!
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